


Soothe your scars

by October_rust



Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham Knight
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Knifeplay, dub-con kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-13 00:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11748315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: Inspired by the boss fight between Bruce and Jason in Arkham Knight. A completely self-indulgent one-shot.





	Soothe your scars

All of the men the Knight has sent to kill him lie unconscious, their bodies littering the abandoned shopping mall.

Batman destroys the patrolling drone, disables the second sentry gun.

It's almost over.

Now he just has to grapple up, confront the Arkham Knight himself, rescue Jim ...

“Too slow, Bruce.”

The bullet pierces through the protective weaves of his armour, shattering through the bone and muscle in its path. He falls to his knees, struggling to clear the black spots blurring his vision as pain ripples through him in a red-hot wave.

A precise shot, not meant to kill.

Above, perched atop the gargoyle, the Arkham Knight lowers his sniper rifle. Then, in one smooth, graceful movement, he leaps down.

Heavy boots thunk on the floor. Measured and unhurried, the steps are getting closer, an ominous prowl of a predator approaching his crippled prey, but he cannot move, cannot react. And it's not just the shock of a fresh bullet wound that robs him of his breath and makes him grit his teeth. There's something wrong, something unnatural in the sluggishness of his reactions. The bullet … It must have been coated in something – some poison, some neurotoxin agent … 

“Just you and me now. And you're not going to get away. Look at me.”

With a difficulty, he glances up. The red helmet clatters to the ground, and the Knight becomes Jason again. His gaze slides over the scar marring the left cheek, the “J” stamped there in raised white lines, and the Joker laughs in his head, _aren't you proud of our boy, Batsy._

The agony and rage in Jason's eyes are almost impossible to withstand. They slice through his heart like jagged knives.

“Jason ...”

“This is how it ends, Bruce.” And his voice is so terribly young, the mockery and bravado ringing hollow, the hurt underneath too raw.

All the words he has in response feel so useless. What can he say? That he's sorry? Please, forgive me? But he cannot let the darkness consume his boy, watch Jason drown in the vicious cycle of madness and pain.

So he has to plead, no matter how useless the words feel. Not for his sake, but for the sake of his boy.

“It doesn't have to end like that. Please, Jason, come ...”

“No!”

The fragile control shatters, the Joker tsks, _You've always had such a way with wooing them, Brucie,_ just as Jason's fist hits his jaw. His head snaps back, and he still cannot move – he can only half-sit, half-lean against the wall, cornered and helpless. 

Before he can pull himself from the daze, a heavy weight settles in his lap.

His eyes widen behind the lenses.

“No,” Jason repeats, his voice softer, almost like a whisper.

Deft fingers reach out and pry away the hidden catches, then take off the Batman's cowl.

“Jason, what ...”

Strong thighs flex and tighten around Bruce's hips, a silent warning. There's a knife in Jason's hand, and the serrated blade glitters when he brings it to Bruce's throat, forces his chin up, the metal cool against the sliver of the skin not protected by the layers of the suit.

“Look. At. Me.”

He does, bracing himself once more for all the suffering, all the accusations in those burning blue eyes. He deserves them all.

Jason studies him in return, face impassive, the knife steady in his hand. He's tall and broad, his body honed for war and revenge, black hair matted with sweat, his lips a hard, unforgiving line. 

_Like looking into a mirror, eh, Batsy?_

“Do you see it now? There is no hope for me, Bruce.” Jason's tone is still calm, as if he's patiently explaining some obvious, unchangeable fact.

And Bruce has to deny it, has to try to save him. “There is. Don't let the Joker win, Jason ...”

The blade bites into his neck, effectively silencing his plea. A warm trickle of blood starts to seep from the shallow cut.

“There is no hope. The hope always dies.” Jason's breath is hot against Bruce's ear. “That's what Arkham and the Joker have taught me. I waited, I believed, I endured his games. And in the end it was all for nothing.” 

The guilt crashes over him. “The bastard lied to me. He shot you, showed me your body. I should have ...”

“Yes, you should have.” Jason turns his face, his mouth brushing against Bruce's jaw, almost like a caress. “And now it's too late.”

A hand fists in Bruce's hair and gives a harsh tug, forcing his neck into an arch. He cannot help but gasp when sharp teeth close over the exposed skin, bite into the taut tendon, mark his throat with bruises. 

“It's your fault,” Jason growls into Bruce's neck.

His voice doesn't shake. “Yes.” The teeth at his throat dig harder. “I failed you. But I won't let you destroy yourself. I won't fail you again.”

Jason licks at the spilled blood, and it takes all of Batman's self-control not to shiver, not to jerk back in surprise. Jason's mouth, soft and warm, contrasts with the cool touch of the knife, still poised in silent threat.

“Won't you, now.” Jason shifts again. “Let's see about that, then.” The words are murmured against Bruce's lips, and this time he stiffens, unable to hide his shock.

The expression in Jason's eyes is unfathomable.

“Jason,” he warns, trying to force his body to struggle, but to no avail.

A long, hard look, and then Jason dips his head, the last barrier breached, to press his lips over Bruce's. 

In his head, the Joker crows and whistles. _Look at it ! Didn't know the kid had it in him!_

His breath stutters, mind filling with a static buzz, heart pounding wildly in his chest.

It feels like falling. 

Like being enveloped in a starless night, the soundless beat of the bats' wings around him, the hunger rising in his blood as he goes out to hunt. 

And he surrenders to it.

If this is something that Jason needs, something that brings them together …

Jason groans into Bruce's mouth, the sound so tortured that it's almost indistinguishable from a sob, the fingers tangled in the strands of Bruce's hair spasming uncontrollably. He presses harder, tongue sweeping inside, touching, claiming, as though he wants to melt into Bruce. 

If this is something that Jason needs …

He moves his lips against Jason's, responding in kind, his teeth biting lightly, his tongue pushing against Jason's, and Jason groans again, lets go of Bruce's hair. The knife falls to the floor, forgotten, and Jason cradles Bruce's jaw with shaking hands.

“Bruce,” he spits it like a curse, voice cracking.

Jason's trembling as though he's about to fall apart, chest heaving, eyes wild and filled with angry tears.

Watching him like this is the worst torment.

So Bruce gathers his strength, fights against the poison coursing in his veins, and reaches for Jason, his grip feeble at first, stiff from the effects of the toxin wearing off, as he cups Jason's cheek, thumbing off the wetness from the long eyelashes, his other arm circling the boy's waist.

He lets Jason sag against his chest, murmurs soft words of comfort into the tousled black hair, feels more tears scalding his neck, absorbs the vibrations of choked off sobs as he smooths his palm down the broad back.

“Robin,” he whispers, kissing Jason's brow. “My Robin.”

Jason slides his hand down, splays his fingers over the symbol of the bat, right above Bruce's heart.

And for the moment, it's enough.


End file.
